


Open Mic at Moon's Press

by Mimett_Greens, twixt_haw_and_thorne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (even though Glenn is alive and well), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Catholic School, Claude wants to change the world, Coffee Shops, Dead Poets Society AU, Dedue is a painter, Dimitri just wants to be happy, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Familial Abuse, Fantasy Racism, Felix is a violinist, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Fraternity hazing, Happy Ending, Hate Crimes, Hazing, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hospitalization, Institutional Racism, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One Big Happy Family, Open Relationships, Polyamorous Pack, Polyamory, Psychological Torture, Racist Language, Recovery, Sexual hazing/abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Sylvain is a writer, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Waterboarding, domestic abuse, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29857155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimett_Greens/pseuds/Mimett_Greens, https://archiveofourown.org/users/twixt_haw_and_thorne/pseuds/twixt_haw_and_thorne
Summary: In modern-day Faerghus, the word of the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros is absolute. Many things, such as same-sex attraction, sexual urges before marriage, freethinking agnosticism, and artwork that depicts any such experiences, be it writing, painting, music, or otherwise, is not only frowned upon but potentially blasphemous.Dimitri, the Archbishop's grandson, must hide his own feelings from under the eye of his cruel uncle and his grandfather, or he will be beaten. Felix ran away from home to avoid being forced into a position of ornamental power and lives openly, inviting daily violence as he loses himself in the passion of playing his violin. Claude is clawing his way up the political ladder to make things better for all people, to separate the church and the state all while an entire fraternity blackmails him for being gay, as if the racist threats weren't bad enough. Sylvain, steered by his father into becoming a passionless lawyer, is desperately in love with a bishop who nurtured his love of telling stories.A handsome barista with a love of painting and weighed with loss brings them together for open mic night at Moon's Press.
Relationships: Dedue Molinaro/Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri/Dedue/Sylvain/Claude/Felix, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Dedue Molinaro, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Jeralt Reus Eisner/Seteth, Mentioned Miklan/Glenn, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Dedue Molinaro, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Seteth
Kudos: 8





	Open Mic at Moon's Press

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely based off of Dead Poets Society! We promise this will have a happy ending, but first they go through a lot, sheltering in one another's arms of course. 
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Homophobic slurs, problematic relationship, age-gap, explicit sex in a confessional booth, cruel family members, neglect
> 
> For fic updates and sometimes art, you can follow me at @Mechanist_Macha and follow Mimett at @MimettGreens

Confessional booths often had a joking reputation for being the place where priests and those they are meant to counsel hold lascivious, clandestine meetings. They were dark and private, curtained heavily and even soundproof, at least in the case of the church smack in the middle of the grounds at St. Seiros' famous college.

Sylvain was already pressed into the darkwood wall, the scarlet curtain breezing over his cheek with every sweaty thrust the priest took against him. Sylvain had never had it this good. The women he dated wanted his money, and all other men he'd seen in dark alleys had selfishly used and cast him aside. Seteth wasn't like that. He was kind and generous. He did anything Sylvain asked.

It must be love, mustn't it?

"Sylvain..." The priest's voice was heavy and hot, pleading in his ear as he pierced him, holding him tightly from behind, helping to hold him up so that Sylvain wasn't bearing his weight by himself.

Sylvain whined softly as his sweat slicked hands slid down the smooth wooden walls. Anyone could pull the curtains back, that was what made it so exciting. 

"S-Seteth… h-harder… faster," he panted. "Fuck, need you, need your come..." There was no empty space inside him, no hollow emptiness when he was with Seteth, when he's full of him, his fingers in his mouth and it was so good, felt so damn perfect. A moan he tried to smother escaped and he hoped to the Goddess it just sounded like a wailing confessor.

They were awfully lucky the chapel was mostly empty; Seteth, too, seemed to be having trouble holding his voice back tonight. He grunted, motivated to pick up his pace at the sweet sounds of Sylvain's moaning. He let his hands, firm and elegant, fall to the young man's hips and rammed forward with the vigor of a much spryer man. A little growl escaped him as the golden tassels, a mark of his station as a bishop, swung to show his exertion. That was the first time Sylvain ever heard him make that noise. He must be really into it tonight.

After one, two, three perfectly vicious shoves, Seteth spilled himself, emptying entirely into Sylvain for the first time. He'd always insisted on doing otherwise, always pulling out no matter how much he was begged. But not tonight, it seemed. Sylvain's body stiffened as the bishop came. His stomach muscles went taut as a loud cry escaped him, so loud that he clamped his own hand down over his mouth as his spend splattered against the wall of the confessional. 

For a long moment, there was just the sounds of heavy breathing. 

"H-holy fuck… fuck..." Sylvain turned a little, enough to capture Seteth's mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. "Love you… _fuck,_ I love you." It didn't matter if Seteth was a priest, a sometimes tutor, Sylvain loved him with his whole being.

Seteth kissed back and it was hungry, deeper and more desperate than usual. The effect was a leaping heart in Sylvain's chest; maybe Seteth was finally starting to love him back. Seteth didn't respond with words, though, just kept kissing him as he thrust a few more times, Sylvain's warm body milking him through his release. Only when they had pulled apart, sticky and spent, did he finally speak.

"Sylvain..." he breathed, wincing at the mess from the wall as he handed Sylvain the belt to his uniform. "We... We can't do this anymore."

Sylvain's blood ran cold. "What?" It came out as a soft croak. Was Seteth being serious? Sylvain tugged his pants up and scrambled to turn in the small space. "What do you mean? Of course we can, we can just go to your place if you're worried about being caught. Though you didn't seem to mind just now."

Seteth looked away. Somehow, no matter what crazy things they got up to, he always looked immaculate afterwards, which was a shame because when his hair was all messy was when it looked best. "I... Sylvain, this is wrong," he sighed, resting his face in his open hand... The hand he'd so lovingly brushed Sylvain's face with. "It is not a matter of being found out. You are a student, I am a bishop. It is beyond inappropriate for me to take advantage of my position of authority over you like this..."

"How is it taking advantage of your position!? I came onto you first!" Sylvain's voice had started to rise as his hurt began to show. "Y-you can't just--fuck me and then tell me it's not working out! Seteth, I love you, and you love me, I know you do. The church is wrong, it's not wrong to like each other, to love each other. Please, don't do this." Maybe he could talk him around. Often when Seteth said things similar to this, Sylvain could reassure him.

Seteth's face, red from sex, was now pinched with agony. He tried to gesture for Sylvain to keep his voice down, but he was also too concerned for him to not give him a proper explanation. "Sylvain, please... I... I should never have accepted. I am not saying it is wrong to love someone of the same sex," he said quickly, before Sylvain could protest. "I... I have a daughter who is almost your age! Surely you can see the problems? I do not take back what I said before. I do love you, but that just isn't enough."

"What do you mean it isn't enough? Is it really the age thing? We… we're good together! You said so and I'd get on with Flayn, you know I would!" Sylvain knew the age gap was an issue. By Seiros, Seteth was old enough to be his dad. But that didn't matter. They loved each other. That was what mattered, _all_ that mattered. "Seteth, please. Why is this suddenly not good enough for you?" Surely his heart was breaking, he could feel it in his chest. Why was he doing this? Why _now?_

The bishop could see the tears forming and reached for him, clearly worried. "Sylvain, it isn't that you aren't good enough, why must it always come to that?" he sighed, clearly hoping to take him into his arms once more, but it just felt like a consolation prize now. "It isn't that at all. And I am not worried about you and Flayn at all. You are young," he strained, as though pointing it out again would make it more obvious. "What I can give you is not what someone your age could give you. I am old, I am not exciting, Sylvain. And I am constantly busy as a priest and father."

"I don't care if you're old! Age is just a stupid number!" Sylvain grabbed at his hand as he sniffed, eyes wide and glassy in the dim light. "It's never been a problem before! Why now? _Why?_ I could give you what you wanted, I promise! I won’t always be twenty! I want the same things as you!" Sylvain pleaded as a fat tear rolled down his face. Since meeting Seteth, he’d fallen rather hard, as young men tend to do. For Sylvain though, it was true love. Full on, one-hundred percent true, not some passing fancy like most would believe. "Besides, people my age are stupid..." Sylvain mumbled.

Seteth took both of his hands carefully and brought them to his lips. "Sylvain... What a man my age wants is to live quietly. Surely you can't want that at twenty years old?"

"I do, _I do!"_ Sylvain pleaded. His lower lip wobbled and he sucked it between his teeth to stop it.

Seteth gave him a soft, pitying smile. "Sylvain, do you _really?_ Can you really imagine a quiet life with just Flayn and me? Eating dinner at home every night? We don't go out, we shop for groceries for fun!"

Sylvain just nodded. "I totally can!" Truthfully, he couldn't. He'd miss his friends, his social life. "Please...I don't want to...I don't want to stop seeing you," Sylvain sniffed, hating that soft, sad smile. That pity in his eyes. "E-even if I couldn't, I could...I could still hang out with people! Like… when you're busy and stuff. At church!"

"Sylvain, please... stop." Seteth finally let go of his hands and looked away, ashamed. "This should never have happened in the first place. If I could change things, I would, but you would have to be in hiding your whole life. It is no life at all."

"I wouldn't have to be in hiding! No one would care once I graduate!" He had a year and a half left, it wasn't that long. But Seteth wasn't budging and Sylvain could feel the hurt as it welled up inside him, spilled over into rank excess in the form of tears and hitched breath. How could he do this to Sylvain? To _them?_

"I could have told everyone! About this!" he suddenly hissed. "But I didn't! I could have _ruined_ you! But I didn't! Because I _love_ you!" It was an outright guilt trip and at best, and at worst, potentially blackmail. "Why did you even fuck me if you were going to just break up with me? This was a pity fuck, wasn't it!? Or did you just wanna get your rocks off one last time?"

Seteth's jaw immediately tightened and his eyes, rather than flashing with anger, went distant and dead. "It was never pity, Sylvain," he said quietly, and it was obvious that it wasn't the threatening, it wasn't the anger, it was _that_ which had wounded him most, cut him deeply, potentially smacking against the scars of his own traumatic past. Sylvain knew he'd struck him where it hurt when his eyes went dull. It hurt to see it, but was also deeply satisfying. Let him hurt, then he'd know how Sylvain felt. 

"Then why? Why fuck me and then say ‘sorry not sorry, this isn't working out for me’?" Sylvain narrowed his eyes and ignored the tears that colored the corners. He'd never been so honest, so open with someone. Everyone just wanted him for his father’s money, for the fucking prestige, two things Seteth could never have and didn’t care for. The one time he'd told someone he liked them, truly loved them, they'd used him. And now Seteth was too. How fucking dare he just drop Sylvain like this?

Seteth shook his head. "You're right. I was wrong to... to initiate anything with you, Sylvain. I suppose the guilt has caught up with me." He looked away, but there was nowhere else to go in this tiny booth, and finally he sighed, rubbing his temple. "I did not intend to... to use or pity you. But I understand that you may..." He could not hold back his sighs, it seemed. "Here." Out of his breast pocket, he fetched a tiny business card with a crescent moon on it. "Hate me, if you must, Sylvain. But I have loved our time together."

Sylvain looked at the card. "The hell is this? A bar? In case you haven't noticed, I'm not old enough to drink," he spat at Seteth. It didn't stop him though. He just got his alcohol from his father's stash or parties.

"It's a coffee shop, Sylvain," Seteth said quietly. His voice was hoarse, as though he was, himself, close to tears. "It's open late and it's less well-known for people... people like us." He closed his eyes.

"You're serious… you're really… I don't understand!" Goddess, why was this so confusing? Hadn't the plan been just to wait until he graduated? What changed? When? _Why?_ "Why'd you say you love me if you don't want me?" Sylvain wiped at his eyes. Naturally he'd taken all of this about as well someone his age could and hopped back and forth between his anger and his upset.

Seteth reached out, gripped his shoulders tightly, trying to meet his eyes. "Please, that's not what is happening here. It isn't that I don't want you, I want the best for you! Why can't you trust that? Have I ever lied to you?"

Sylvain scowled. "You lied about waiting until after I graduated! You said once I'd graduated it wouldn't matter!" Sylvain gripped onto his robes. "Please, please don't. I love you… I love you, I do. I can be quiet and go grocery shopping and stuff, I can do all that, I can!"

Seteth grabbed his wrists tightly, "Damn it, Sylvain, I am _giving you an out!"_ he shouted, somewhat panicked. "I didn't want to lie, but I was foolish to promise you anything! Don't you see? Don't you see that this will be better for you? You really think I want to let you go!?"

Sylvain yanked his hand away, "Then why _are_ you letting me go!? You don't know what's best for me!" He was past the point of caring if his own voice raised. It was late and there weren't any people about now.

"I do, I'm an adult, you're a child!" Seteth hissed, now also being loud. Luckily it didn't seem that anyone was paying attention. "That's what's wrong with this, don't you understand, Sylvain!?"

Sylvain glared at him. "I wasn't a child just a minute ago. Or is that what you liked? You liked the idea of fucking a child?" Sylvain hissed right back at him, his words meant to hurt, to injure. "Fuck you! I gave you _everything!"_ He shoved past Seteth and out of the confessional. He was so furious, so upset that he wanted to hurl something and for a moment he considered knocking down the tall, brass incense stand just out of pure spite.

"Sylvain!" Seteth called after him, and for a moment Sylvain could hear his steps following on the marble floor, but they didn't last. He was clearly tired of following him.

Part of him had hoped Seteth would come after him. He wanted him to, wanted it so badly that when he didn't feel that familiar warm hand on his shoulder, his throat went tight and his eyes stung. That fucking asshole. Fuck him. He didn't need him. 

“Have fun explaining the jizz in the confessional, bastard.” Sylvain snorted to himself angrily. Seteth would probably remember to clean it, but Sylvain hoped he didn't. 

He wandered away from the church and into town. He supposed he could use his fake ID at a bar. Get drunk. But part of him didn't want to. Mostly he just wanted to curl up and cry. How could Seteth do this? How? Why didn't he chase after him? Why did he tell him he loved him if he was going to just drop him? He really couldn't trust anyone. 

The card was still clutched in his fist and he stared at it miserably, wiping his eyes as they stung again. A coffee shop. A fucking _coffee shop_ . _Hey sorry I'm breaking your heart but why don't you go grab a coffee instead?_

What a joke. 

And yet his feet led him there anyway.

* * *

Dimitri didn't know how long it had been. The basement didn't have windows, after all. Every time he 'acted up' as his Uncle Rufus called it, he was locked down here. No electronics, no watches, no windows... no way of knowing how long it had been. This time, he had broken down and cried for seemingly no reason at all. That earned a punishment, of course; no one could know that the Archbishop's grandson was mentally and emotionally unstable after all.

And every time he was down here, not conscious of time, made it worse.

It wasn't that he did it on purpose. He just couldn't control himself sometimes. He'd never been all that good after the accident. Accident… even he couldn't bring himself to call it murder. Just the word made him shudder, made his brain itch inside his skull like he was going to start hearing voices again. 

The doctors had assured his uncle it was a symptom of PTSD from the ‘accident’, and that given time, he'd be fine. They'd sent a young Dimitri on his merry way with a request to let them know if he got worse. Not that Rufus was going to do a follow-up. It wasn't until Dimitri was old enough at eighteen to go to the doctor himself and ask for help, that he got on medication.

Medication that his uncle was in charge of. His own fault, really. As soon as he tried for some independence, he was shot back down. His 'stunt' at seven years ago hadn't helped matters either. Not that a sheltered teen knew anything about proper suicide. His uncle had used it as leverage against him to start being the primary care-giver and decision maker in Dimitri's life. He didn't even have charge of his own money. Another one of his uncle's ploys. 

Dimitri growled to himself just to hear something in the silence. One day he'd leave and never come back.

The door opened rather suddenly and light filtered in and down from the upstairs. Who knew how long it had been? He was hungry. "All right, Dimitri. Come upstairs now." His Uncle's voice was sharp and strained through knives the way he spoke.

Dimitri stood up, brushed himself off, plastered a neutral expression on his face and slowly ascended the stairs. Once he was at the top, he stood still, eyes firmly planted on the floor.

His Uncle was not taller than him, but he was intimidating nonetheless. Strong. His beatings had become almost daily, and Dimitri now memorized each of his expressions to know when one was coming. For now, Rufus seemed to be in a good mood.

"Have we learned better from our outburst?" he drawled, pedantic and condescending.

Dimitri nodded. "Yes, sir." He hated this. Hated the bullshit. His uncle didn't help him at all, all he cared about was the money that had been left behind. If it wasn't for that stupid conservatorship, Dimitri would have been away from here. "I apologize."

"Very good now." Rufus patted his head, as if he weren't twenty-two, or a person at all, but a dog. "Tarim is waiting in the garden with lunch." Lunch. That meant it had been nearly fourteen hours, alone with his thoughts and his ghosts. "Run along now."

"Can I have my medication now? Please?" The medication in question was meant to help with the very thing that caused this damned conservatorship.

Rufus froze, his chest swelling in anger. "... I suppose," he half-snarled, half-sighed. As if it wasn't damn necessary. He was supposed to take it every day, but Rufus didn't allow that. He was lucky when he got it. "Tarim will administer it. Do not grow reliant on such physical things. You must have true faith in the Goddess to protect and heal your heart, Dimitri."

Dimitri winced. "Thank you, uncle." He headed for the garden quickly before he changed his mind. What a load of shit. The Goddess couldn't heal him. He needed that medicine.

Outside, he spotted Tarim under the shade of a large tree. There was a garden table beneath it with carved little wooden benches. At least out here, he was free of Rufus. 

"Hello Tarim," Dimitri said quietly as he approached like a loyal old hound, padding softly out.

Tarim was not too much older than Dimitri himself, and far too kind to work for Rufus. But she talked to him like a person, like a big sister. Bandaged his wounds. Since she was an immigrant from Dagda, she'd been with them since she was fifteen.

"Dimitri," she smiled, setting aside her embroidery and patting the bench beside her. "I'm glad you're here, your lunch almost got cold."

"I only just got let out..." Dimitri sat next to her. His uncle's servants knew all about how Rufus treated his nephew but only Tarim cared. 'For his own good' supposedly. "Ru-uncle said you would administer my medication?" He looked at her hopefully.

Tarim looked up sadly. "Oh... You were in the basement?" she asked. "I'm so sorry..." She stood up and wheeled over a little metal cart with his lunch on it. He wasn't supposed to have Dagdan food, but he could actually taste the spices in it, so she made it for him. "Of course, here's your pill," she smiled sweetly, pressing it into his hand. "Hurry, take it quickly before your Uncle stops you." He sometimes agreed to let Dimitri have it, then stopped it halfway to his mouth. He downed the pill quickly and winced as it caught in his throat. He'd rather take it dry than not at all. 

"Thank you. I don't understand why he even withholds them. As if I would take too many." Dimitri rolled his eyes.

Tarim shot him a sympathetic look. "I know, I know. He is... A cruel man." She winced at her own words and looked around, paranoid. She wouldn't mind getting fired, except that she was the only kindness Dimitri had in this miserable place.

Dimitri could only nod. “I just wish he’d let me live my own life,” he mumbled. “One day I’ll leave.” He looked at Tarim. "You won’t tell him I said that, will you?"

Tarim shook her head. "Of course not. I'm rooting for you," she promised. After a moment's hesitation, she stood up. "Dimitri... Let me show you something I found." She led him quietly by the hand towards one of the hidden back hedges. "I found this while trimming the other day." Now she was whispering... Clearly it was a secret.

There were several hangings of decorative ivy draped over the outer walls, covering the brick, but one such area she was able to sweep aside, revealing a small opening in the wall. It seemed almost purposeful; thin enough to hide well but just enough space for Dimitri to squeeze through. Tarim turned to him, her eyes determined and serious. "Dimitri... This lets out right onto Tasset Boulevard. I followed it yesterday." Indeed, there was an overgrown little path of stepping stones. "I don't know why it's here but if you were careful, you could probably just... Go out for a little while. Have some fun for once."

Dimitri stared incredulously at Tarim, then at the gap, at _freedom_. "You… really? What if he finds out? I could always go out at night..." he mused. One thing that he considered lucky is that sometimes his uncle Rufus went to bed early to get up for a very early mass before he did… whatever it was he did.

Tarim nodded. "It's risky. But you deserve to know it's here." She reached out without hesitating and hugged him tightly. Most people Dimitri met (when he was allowed company) were afraid of him. They'd heard he was deranged, possessed, demonic... But Tarim never treated him like that. "I just can't stand to see you wasting away in here. It's not fair."

Dimitri froze for a moment and then patted her awkwardly. The idea of being able to sneak out was both exhilarating and more than a little frightening. But this also meant he had a way to leave. What if he--what if he found a small job, just for an hour or two? Maybe he could eventually save up enough money for a bus ticket or a train ticket. That would be good. He could leave. Not tell anyone. "Thank you, Tarim. I… it's something to think about." He drew back from her, knowing if they were caught hugging by his uncle, there would be hell to pay.

Tarim looked awkward about it. "Er... Sorry. Got a bit carried away."

"Dimitri!" Already, his uncle was calling from the porch; he hadn't even eaten yet. "Come inside! You know the sun can be too dangerous for your skin!"

Tarim quickly covered the opening with ivy. "Just tell me before you go?" she asked, seeming to know his exact train of thought. "I'll miss you."

Dimitri turned toward the sound of his uncle's voice. "Coming!" To Tarim, though, he whispered, "Thank you. If I did go… for good, I mean… it would be a while yet. I would need to plan." His uncle called again, impatient. "I’d better go. Thank you, Tarim, thank you." With that, he jogged off to the back door and back to his uncle.

Dimitri spent the rest of the day in hell. He was forced to do his homework under his uncle's cold eye, forced to jog on a machine for nearly an hour to 'keep in shape,' and then forced to take a cocktail of pills he didn't know anything about before he had a video chat scheduled with his grandfather. It was a reminder of the bleak emptiness of his days, an endless routine, a broken ferris wheel of misery. But if Rufus was no picnic, his grandfather was worse.

"How have you been, Dimitri?" the Archbishop asked, his hands folded sharply in his lap.

Dimitri sat, stiff backed and tense on the edge of the couch. He'd washed and cleaned himself up after his run and the weight lifting (which he enjoyed, at least). His uncle made him train to keep fit, to ensure he was in peak physical health, yet he insisted he had things wrong with him, _and yet_ had no qualms about pushing him to his limit. 

"I have been well, thank you, grandfather. How have you been?"

"I am well." He looked at the camera in that grim sort of austerity that all major religious figures must. There was no love in his gaze, no tenderness. He had never been kind to Dimitri. He would spend money on overly lavish gifts for his birthdays because he had appearances to keep, but they were never anything that Dimitri actually wanted. He didn't bother to get to know him. It was that cold distance that had made Lambert run away from home. He and his second wife had loved Dimitri with everything they had. Now his grandfather and his uncle were all he had left.

"How fare your studies?"

“They are going well. I am particularly enjoying my history lessons.” Dimitri shifted and his eyes flicked to his uncle who stood just out of frame. He hated this. This forced conversation. What was the point? Neither him or his grandfather cared.

"I am glad to hear that," Archbishop Jameson replied. His secretary came on, interrupting the conversation, and murmured something to him. He frowned, the deep-set lines of his face shadowed with something almost sinister. Like a cartoon villain. "Hm. Thank you, Marcella. I will deal with it later." He stared at Dimitri, his eyes boring through the screen somehow. "I feel it is my responsibility to remind you that you represent the future of the Blaiddyd family name, Dimitri. There are three Archbishops in our line, and before that, Kings. Do you understand?"

“Yes, of course. I— I have been doing as I am told to the best of my abilities, I assure you.” Dimitri looked at his hands, unhappy.

"That is good. Although," and Dimitri just knew a reprimand, sharp and scathing was coming. "Your Uncle reported an... _o_ _utburst_ yesterday. Care to tell me about that?"

Dimitri felt his gut twist and panic settle into his chest. No he did _not_ care to tell him about that.

"I uh… I was… I… I overwhelmed myself. I think… maybe… it was the sun?" He had been outside quite a bit yesterday and he hoped that it would appease both his uncle and his grandfather. "I'm very sorry. Truly. I didn't mean to. I just… well… sometimes I--" He cut himself off, hesitant.

"The sun? I see..." The Archbishop frowned. "Perhaps I should ask Rufus to restrict your time outside. If the sunlight is too much, you should be indoors." He stood from his overly ornate chair, brushing off his robe. "I must go, as I have many things to attend to. Have a pleasant evening, Dimitri."

So not only was this one of the worst days of the past month, but he was not going to be let outside anymore.

"W-wait, I just spent a little too _much_ time outside, that was all!" Dimitri cried out to his grandfather.

The Archbishop stiffened instantly, he could see it through the screen. "Which is why it is imperative to restrict your access. You clearly do not know what is good for you. And on top of that, you seem hysterical right now." He folded his sleeves back crisply.

"No, no I assure you, I'm not hysterical." Dimitri tried to keep the rising panic out of his voice. If they thought he was hysterical his uncle might give him a sedative. It wouldn't knock him out, but it would make him so drowsy he'd not feel like moving.

His grandfather stopped and looked at him warily. "Prove it," he snapped, cold and disbelieving. Over the edge of the desktop, Rufus narrowed his eyes warningly.

How could he prove it? What was wrong with these two? How was this fair? 

But Dimitri took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He sat up, rigid and proper again, staring into the camera evenly. "I am fine."

"Hmph."

Rufus stepped onto the screen. "Should I sedate him, father?"

"...no." He turned away from the camera as two people came on screen, one handing him a book, the other encircling his neck with a long, ornate chain of gold. "If he claims he is calm, then we must believe him, mustn't we?"

As soon as Rufus ended the call, he turned on him. "You've distressed him, Dimitri. My father is getting on in years, you know."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I just… I want so badly to be good. The best. At everything. To think that I am not… that my ailments can hinder me, it… worries me." Dimitri was getting very good at lying now. He knew exactly what his grandfather wanted to hear. "I shall pray harder. More often."

Rufus watched him closely, suspiciously. Dimitri was used to this scrutiny by now but that didn't make it any less invasive. He felt like he should be getting more free as time went on, but the older he got, the more Rufus clamped down on him. "Very well. Retire to your room then. Perhaps fasting will remind you what you must be repentant for."

Hungry, lonely, and stressed, Dimitri had to go to bed, just shy of six pm.

His father followed him up the stairs.

_You could kill him,_ he whispered in his ear. _He has always been jealous of what we had._

Dimitri ignored him. If he said a word and Rufus heard him, he'd be in deep, deep trouble. He must be getting too stressed, his medication should have kept the voices away. 

In his room, he shut his door quietly. "I can't kill him. I would never," Dimitri whispered. He switched on his lamp and moved to his window to look out on the back gardens. Why his uncle insisted on such a large house was beyond him. "How _could_ he be jealous when he has all this?" Dimitri mused.

Lambert shook his head. _How could my own son have become so weak?_ he hissed, not answering the question. He hardly ever did. And the thing was, Lambert never spoke to him like this when he was alive. He'd been a loving father. Not perfect, but never so vicious. _If you weren't wasting your time with studying history, you could have avenged us by now..._

"And become a murderer!?" Dimitri hissed. No. No, he wouldn't do something like that. He couldn't. "You're not real. You're not. You're just sent to test me," Dimitri didn't dare turn from the window. He couldn't handle seeing his father standing behind him, not like this.

**_Coward!_ ** Lambert seethed, snarling behind him. But his voice was quieter when Dimitri couldn't see him. _You were even given an escape and you walked away! What am I to do with such a useless son?_

He sounded more like Rufus than anything. His father would never say anything like this, he wouldn't, he _wouldn't..._

"Stop, stop..." Dimitri chanted. His hands gripped the window ledge in a white-knuckled grip. "I'm going. Tonight. When he's asleep. I can't go when he's awake. He'd find out. I promise. I promise. I promise..."

As Lambert's hissing insults began to fade, he heard another whisper.

_I love you._

When he turned, his single eye caught on the one picture he still had of Patricia. She was not his real mother, but she was all he remembered, and she had been kind and good. In the picture, taken by his father, little Dimitri was being pushed by a swing from their old tree, Patricia smiling behind him with her arms outstretched as he laughed.

She sat on his bed, her eyes sad but her smile so soft. _I wouldn't want this for you, Dimitri. Neither of us would._

"I know. I know that. But if I just run he'll find me and bring me back. He's got guardianship. I-I'm not in my right mind sometimes. Sometimes--like now. Y-you're not _real!"_ Dimitri's voice rose as he tugged on his hair. Luckily, this time wasn’t so bad that he ripped it out.

Patrica faded and sighed into thin air at his declaration. The medicine was working, at least. And as it grew darker and darker outside, they didn't return. It was quiet. He was alone.

Goddess, he couldn't take this. The voices, the hallucinations. Maybe he needed new medication. Maybe that was it. Dimitri silently lit the tea lights on his dresser. They were in a small, clear bowl of water, floating on the top. Behind it was a small figure of Seiros. 

He genuinely did pray. He prayed to be able to escape, to stop seeing and hearing things, to find his place in life. 

"Goddess… just… please..." Dimitri whispered, nearly choking on his own pleas. He finally crawled into bed, left his clothing neatly folding on a chair and turned his back to the door. He knew his uncle would be up to check on him before he went to bed himself.

As usual, the Goddess did not answer his prayers; at least, not in any tangible way that he could discern. She, like his room, was silent.

When the door opened, Dimitri's eye was closed and his breathing soft. Sometimes Rufus waited and it was more than a little unnerving, but tonight he seemed satisfied and shut off the hall light, leaving him alone. Perhaps the Goddess was listening after all. The halls were empty and the house was dark. Only then could he make his escape.

Dimitri waited a good half an hour before he slipped out of bed and put his clothing back on. He slipped his converse on with his skinny jeans, thankful he'd been allowed some clothing that was in keeping with 'current fashion'. Didn't want him to look as weird as he was, did they? Besides, converse were quieter. 

Satisfied, he quickly took his small amount of money from inside his Seiros statue. It was only a little, seven dollars, but he could buy food with it, that would be good. It would be good enough. He hadn’t eaten in twenty hours now, and that was far from the longest stint.

Ever so quietly, Dimitri opened his door. The hallway was silent. His uncle's room was up on a top floor, which worked to Dimitri's advantage as he crept silently downstairs, heart in his throat. The house alarm was set, but he’d since learned that the back door to the garden was not alarmed, purely so the staff could get in and out in the morning or late at night and the beeping of the door opening wouldn't disturb Rufus. For that, Dimitri was thankful and it was easy to unlock it and slip out. He locked it again, pocketed the key he stole, and dashed across the lawn and out of the gap in the fence. 

Once on the other side, he didn't stop. He ran until he was at least a block away. 

He'd done it. He'd actually _done it!_

But now what? It wasn't that late, only nine, so places would still be open. Food. That was what was next. Food. Ideally in a place that wouldn't be obvious for his uncle to search inside in case he was alerted to his escape. None of those restaurants with windows all over. He'd have to be quick though. There was a gentle roll of thunder and the first few spatters of rain telling him to get a move on. It made him move as the heavens opened, hurrying along the sidewalk looking for a place. He didn't have an umbrella but honestly, he was only allowed out so often so the rain felt natural, felt free. Still, he didn't want to be soaked. He scurried to the first awning he found, a pretty verdant green with potted flowers that were vibrant and gently overgrown. What a pretty place.

He'd found, purely by accident, Moon's Press.

* * *

Claude knew he should be celebrating.

Two years. Two years of desperate clawing, made more desperate by the fact that he had to make it look easy for him. It was impossible to be from anywhere but Fódlan within the borders. Almost a millennia ago, the church had consumed everything in its path and there was no room for anything that hinted that anything else might exist.

That included the color of his skin.

No one wanted to vote for him at first. They turned up their nose. Wouldn't even look at him. Some spat at his shoes. So many lonely, frustrated nights spent awake, pacing, trying to scheme his way into their hearts. He'd torn at his hair, sobbed, very nearly banged his head against the wall. He paid the first likable girl to fake date him. She'd declined at first, but once he finally proved himself to not be a 'gang member', which was what many in the bleached country of Faerghus claimed everyone from Almyra was, that had been a huge help. Hilda turned out to be sweet; dumb, racist, lazy, but sweet. He'd flipped her heart and with her help, he'd flipped many more.

So many long days and nights. So many of his belongings stolen, smashed, or thrown in the fountain. So many campaign posters defaced. So many insults and death threats. Two years but he'd _won._ He was Student Body President now. No one could take that away from him. Sure, they could frame him for something and revoke the title, but he had earned it, at least for tonight.

And he had no one to celebrate with.

He walked along the boulevard, hands in his pockets, not minding the rain. He was lonely, and he was used to it, but... It would be nice if he weren't. It was the lonesome sound of a violin, some kindred soul that lured him to the place with the green awning. A young man, perhaps his age, with dark hair and sharp eyes stood there, playing carelessly in the rain. He had the protection of the awning directly, but the weather might warp the wood of his instrument if he stayed out too long. He played well enough that he must know that and yet he didn't seem to care.

"Hey."

The man looked up. He didn't stop playing. "Hey."

Claude smiled a fake smile. He hardly remembered a real one anymore. The stranger didn't feel obligated, it seemed, to return it. "Do you not have a roof to play under?" he asked sympathetically.

Now he stopped. "I _choose_ not to play there," he huffed, annoyed.

Claude eyed him carefully, reading him well. He was good at that. Reading people. Taking apart their secrets. "Don't suppose you'd mind some company?" he asked, gesturing to one of the tables under the awning.

The man eyed him up and down too. They were both cautious, it seemed. "Sure."

"I'm Claude." No he wasn't.

"Felix."

"You play out here often?"

"It's the only place I'm welcome," Felix loosened the bowstrings, calloused fingers surprisingly rough while twisting the frog.

Claude looked at the sign. Moon's Press. How had he never heard of this place? "Why's that?" Claude asked. After all, he'd seen buskers plenty of other places, but this guy did seem a bit like trouble.

"I'm gay."

Well, that wasn't the answer Claude was expecting. But he did know that being gay in the holiest city of Fódlan was a sin worse even than being biracial. Or maybe slightly better. Depended on the day and which news stories stood out on the front page; a gay scandal or a gang scandal.

"What a coincidence," he chuckled, leaning his elbow on the table. "So am I."

Felix didn't seem to think anything special of that statement. "Cool. You here for open mic night?" he jerked his thumb at the pretty little coffee shop behind him. "This is the only place fags can perform."

Claude raised an eyebrow at the language, but he let it slide. After all, Felix had claimed to be just like him and it wasn’t a cool thing to claim. "Hm. Do I have to perform?"

"Not if you're a coward."

"Guess I am." Claude stood up and headed inside.


End file.
